He worked with his back partially to her, knife angled shallow against the stone, slicing the wings free one by one. Each cut was careful—not rushed, not careless. He laid them into a cloth wrap instead of stuffing them loose into a pack.
Slow.
Deliberate.
The kind of care that came from knowing what happened when you damaged what you were trying to sell.
Elara's hand didn't move to her sword.
He wasn't a threat.
Not in the way that mattered.
But she watched him for a moment longer, cataloging.
His posture was tight—alert without being tense. He didn't scan constantly, but his weight stayed centered, ready to shift. His knife hand never fully committed to the stone; he kept his balance mobile.
Instinctive spacing.
The kind you didn't learn from a book.
She stepped closer, her boots scuffing stone just enough to announce herself.
He glanced over his shoulder. Once. Just once.
No panic. No aggression.
Just... acknowledgment.
He reached for the last wing—the final one clinging to the stone. His knife worked cleanly, freeing it, and he added it to his bundle.
All of them.
Every latheon wing in the chamber.
Elara stopped.
Her gaze swept the wall—bare stone where the blue glow had been moments before. Nothing left. No overlooked clusters. No smaller growths hidden in the cracks.
Gone.
She couldn't go deeper. Not alone. Not for this. The fourth floor pantry was the safest harvest point—the only one she could manage solo without risking more than the material was worth.
And he'd just claimed it all.
Her jaw tightened.
"I'll buy them."
The words came out flat. Direct.
He paused, halfway through tying the bundle closed, and glanced back at her.
No surprise. No suspicion.
Just... waiting.
"How much?" she pressed.
He considered for a moment—not calculating, just deciding—then shrugged slightly.
"Two thousand valis."
Elara blinked.
"Just two thousand valis?"
"Yes."
That was... less than she'd expected. Less than they were worth, honestly. Latheon wings went for closer to five hundred each at the Exchange if they were intact, and she could count at least six in that bundle.
He either doesn't know their value, or he's not greedy.
Either way—
She reached into her pouch without hesitation, counted out the coins, and held them out.
He accepted without protest. No haggling. No attempt to squeeze more out of her now that he knew she needed them.
He just took the valis, passed her the cloth bundle, and turned back toward the wall—toward a different patch where smaller herbs clung to the moisture.
Elara secured the bundle carefully in her pack, then paused.
Her gaze drifted back to him.
"Do you... collect herbs to sell, or—"
She stopped herself.
Reframed.
"—to use?"
He didn't look up from the wall.
"To sell."
His knife worked carefully along the stone, freeing a cluster of moss without damaging the roots.
"Can't risk my life fighting monsters all the time."
The words were matter-of-fact. Not defensive. Not apologetic.
Just... practical.
A beat of silence.
"Need the safer income too."
Elara studied him.
I thought he had been reckless.
But that wasn't quite right, was it?
His spacing was still tight. He hadn't moved toward the center of the chamber where he'd be exposed. He knew where the exits were without looking. His knife work was controlled—no wasted motion, no overcommitment.
He wasn't careless.
He just—
Acts like he thinks he's strategic.
Like he'd built a system in his head. Like he'd convinced himself that instinct and improvisation were the same thing as planning.
Like he believed "I can manage" was the same as "I'm prepared."
Elara turned slightly, her hand resting near her sword hilt out of habit.
She didn't look at him when she spoke.
"That sword," she said, voice even, almost conversational. "Might break any time. Find new."
Short.
Matter-of-fact.
No lecture. No warning speech. Just the truth.
"I know."
His response was immediate.
No argument. No reassurance. No promise that he'd get it fixed.
Just—
"I know."
The words sat in the air between them for a moment.
Then he moved.
He tied the cloth bundle of herbs closed with quick, practiced motions, slipped it into his pack, and stood. His hand rested near the broken sword for half a second—just long enough for Elara to notice—before he adjusted the strap on his shoulder and stepped toward the passage.
No goodbye.
No glance back.
No acknowledgment that the conversation had been anything more than transactional.
Elara stayed where she was, her hand still resting on the secured bundle in her pack.
When she looked up, he was already gone.
The passage swallowed him without echo.
She exhaled—slow, controlled.
The Dungeon didn't care if you were strategic.
It didn't care if you thought you were managing.
It only cared if you were wrong.
And when you were—
It didn't give second chances.